


No Regrets

by meltwithyou



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Broody Derek Hale, Cora Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Derek has man-pain, Drunk Stiles, Drunk Stiles is the best Stiles, Isaac exists, Jackson Never Left, M/M, Pack Feels, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Sassy Cora, Unresolved Sexual Tension, drunk tattoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4334111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltwithyou/pseuds/meltwithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the clusterfuck that has become his increasingly panicked mind, Stiles manages to run through the facts:</p><p>1)	He is currently awake on a Sunday morning at the crack-of-Satan’s-ass o’clock.<br/>2)	He has a tattoo of Derek Hale’s name on his body.<br/>3)	He has a hangover.<br/>4)	He has a tattoo of DEREK HALE'S name on his body.</p><p>Or, the one where Stiles gets a tattoo while drunk, Cora sasses, and Derek has some serious man-pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> Just a simple tattoo AU where Stiles and Derek dance around their feelings. unbeta'd and a weird combo of angst/crack/fluff?  
> Enjoy!

“Is this a joke?” Stiles asks the walls of his empty bedroom.

He looks off into the distance for good measure, hoping that if he’s finally made it onto a revival episode of _Punk’d_ , the least he can do is woo the American public with his devastatingly good looks while they laugh at his misfortune.

Nobody responds, confirming Stiles’ not-so-sneaking suspicion that his life isn’t _that_ awesome and that Ashton Kutcher doesn’t care about him yet. Hm.

In the clusterfuck that has become his increasingly panicked mind, Stiles manages to run through the facts:

1)    He is currently awake on a Sunday morning at the crack-of-Satan’s-ass o’clock.

2)    He has a tattoo of Derek Hale’s name on his body.

3)    He has a hangover.

4)    He has a tattoo of _Derek Hale’s_ name on his body.

Stiles belatedly realizes that he may have a big problem on his hand. Literally. He has a three inch tattoo nestled underneath the gentle crease where his wrist meets his palm.

Stiles looks away from the monstrosity of a mistake permanently inked onto his forearm, hoping that if he removes his gaze, the ink on his skin will rearrange itself into a different combination of letters that spell out something other than, _“THE WORST DECISION YOU HAVE EVER MADE.”_

Stiles tentatively returns his gaze to his wrist.

Well, fuck.

 

* * *

 

Stiles always knew that he thought about Derek a lot. The guy is the definition of the word hot, and Stiles just turned eighteen after all. It would practically be a _sin_ if he didn’t fantasize about the most chiseled, beautiful wolf he knew every now and then.

It was fine at first. In fact, it was more than fine. Originally, his thoughts were shallow enough that his focus was strictly physical. How could Derek’s lips look deliciously chapped but so lush and lickable at the same time? Was Derek strong enough to hold Stiles up against a kitchen cabinet when they kissed? Would his stubble burn against Stiles’ thighs the first time?

Just dandy.

It was harder to control when his not-so-PG thoughts would sneak up on him in pack meetings sometimes. Stiles was acutely aware that a room full of werewolves who all happened to be Stiles’ closest friends (except for Jackson, fuck you very much) could tell that he was turned on and looking for some werewolf lovin’.

To this day, he avoids Derek’s gaze and swears that his often fidgety discomfort is due to Derek’s shitty cushions. (“Buy a real chair, Derek. _Jesus.”_ )

But the knowing smirks from his friends have yet to truly disappear and Stiles isn't okay with that.

He’s not sure when his innocent little crush blossomed into something colossal and extremely frightening, but he refuses to acknowledge that either. Instead, he finds himself planning stupid, impossibly domestic scenarios of his future with Derek. He imagines himself wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist after coming home from work, the warmth of Derek curled around him, feeding each other sandwiches without the crust on…

(“What?” Derek had asked, when Stiles caught him one day, viciously tearing the crust away from his bread as though it had directly insulted his honor.  

“Nothing,” Stiles had replied, his blatant laughter suggesting otherwise. Stiles never forgot the absurdity of the image.)

But never, could Stiles have _ever_ imagined that he was so invested in Derek, even unconsciously so, that he would mark his skin with his name. It was an extremely romantic and pathetic gesture on drunk Stiles’ part, a gesture that he might have even found endearing—if it hadn’t left Stiles fucked and in need of three hundred bucks for laser tattoo removal, that is.

“Stiles.” Derek barks at him, and oh yeah, that’s right, he’s at a pack meeting. He has duties. Huh.

He takes a moment to orient himself, to realize that he’s in Derek’s loft, squashed between Scott and Isaac on the couch. Derek is looking at him expectantly, meaning that he’s probably said something important and Stiles was too busy gaping at his insane beauty to notice.

Stiles winces and puffs his chest out to pretend like he wasn’t just daydreaming about all the ways he could get Derek off. He ignores the fact that his face is rapidly coloring and that Lydia has just coughed out a not-so-discreet giggle behind the palm of her hand in favor of meeting Derek’s eyes. Derek’s gaze is soft and he seems worried.

 _No,_ his mind corrects, _the only thing Derek worries about is his car and his pack. Not you, Stiles._

Stiles has long since recognized that this is just his delusional brain searching for signs that aren’t there.

“Are you, uh, okay? You seem out of it.”

Stiles tugs at the sleeves of his hoodie to reassure himself that Derek hasn’t noticed his new addition, before muttering something incomprehensible. He’s too distracted. At first, it was by the fluid movement of Derek’s muscles under his cool grey t-shirt.

(Stupid Derek and his stupid muscles.)

Now, it’s by the way Derek is scrutinizing him, eyes flitting over his figure, searching for something. His eyes trace Stiles’ profile, urgently sweeping over his shoulders, hands, legs.

Stiles burns.

Nobody says anything for a while as he holds his breath.

Derek looks away suddenly, blinking. He must decide that whatever kindness he had given to Stiles in their fleeting moment was unnecessary, because the next sentence out of his mouth is hard and unusually harsh in the silence. “If you’re not going to pay attention, Stilinksi, you might as well go home.”

“You’re right,” Stiles says quickly, without a fight. The farther he is from Derek, the less ashamed he feels.

A look of pure surprise, followed briefly by hurt, flashes on Derek’s face as he watches Stiles rise. Stiles moves deliberately so as not to agitate his perfectly placed clothing and ignores everyone as he makes a beeline towards the front door.

“C’mon Stiles—” He hears Scott say, but he’s already gone.

His wrist hurts.

* * *

Stiles decides that his and Derek’s relationship is the definition of “it’s complicated.” He knows for a fact that they’ve at least reached acquaintance status, since they’ve saved each other’s lives on multiple occasions, slept in each other’s rooms—granted, Derek was bleeding and had passed out on his floor that one time, but Stiles still counts that as a win—and met each other’s family. For anyone else, Stiles would have long since called them a friend.

With Derek, he’s not so sure.

Sometimes, he catches Derek giving him a fond look as he babbles on about something unimportant. Sometimes, Derek places a rough hand on his shoulder and tugs, or rests his feet on Stiles’ knees or gives him a private smile where his eyes crinkle just a little bit, and Stiles can’t help but feel like they have s _omething_.

Other times, Stiles becomes Derek Hale’s number one target of all things truly broody: grunts, glares and monosyllabic answers. Derek shuts down and Stiles is left feeling helpless, as though he means nothing to Derek at all.

He’s mulling all of this over when he pulls up to Derek’s loft late on a Saturday afternoon. It’s the middle of July and extremely hot, so Stiles wears short sleeves and bandages his tattoo out of sight. He’s not sure why he’s here, but feels the need to visit Derek and clear the air just the same.

He knows Derek hears him as he shuts the Jeep’s door louder than necessary, so he doesn’t bother to announce his presence as he swings open the loft door. He finds Derek near the spiral staircase, shirtless, sinking his fists into what appears to be a sand-filled punching bag.

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles says, deliberately focusing on the swift movement of Derek’s hands instead of the trail of dark hair leading towards his waistband.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just lets Stiles gape at him as he finishes his workout. After a moment, he pauses, sweaty and beautiful and an arrogant bastard, and turns.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says by way of greeting. “What’s going on with you?”

Stiles ignores the brutal honesty of the accusation and stretches his hands out in front of him like a child trying to physically push away his problems. “Can’t a dashing young guy fresh out of high school have some time to himself?” Derek snorts, and Stiles changes his tone. “Excuse _you_ , maybe I’m trying for some _self-exploration_.”

Derek looks as though he’s desperately trying to figure out if that was another one of Stiles’ lewd innuendos, but he just shakes his head in defeat and hides a smile. His eyes are on Stiles’ hands, still stretched out before him, and suddenly Stiles feels incredibly exposed. His hands shake as Derek’s gaze moves upward and softens.

“Are you alright?”

Is he alright? He’s currently trapped in a strange sexual awakening brought on by the sheer unfairness that is Derek’s defined torso. Let’s not forget that less than two weeks ago, he accidentally branded himself with Derek’s name, Derek being the guy who he is head-over-dick in love with.

What did Derek define as ‘alright’, exactly?

“What happened to your arm?” Derek asks, slowly enunciating each word when Stiles doesn’t gift him with an answer.

“No big deal—I just fell. Down the stairs. And hit my hand. Hard. Down the stairs.” _Smooth._

Derek stares at him as though he has never seen him before. “Huh.” And then, “Let me take a look at it.” 

And so what, if Stiles has fantasized about this a million times? About Derek, strong and valiant and caring, cradling him close…

Stiles is about to enthusiastically agree and suggest that he has something else Derek might enjoy looking at even more _if-y’know-what-I-mean_ , before realizing that there’s no way Derek can look at his fake wound. Because said wound is actually the word _DEREK_ written in a gross Helvetica. Stiles would rather be celibate for the rest of his life than have Derek discover that ugly truth. What a buzzkill.

“No!” Stiles squawks, when he notices too late that Derek has already crossed the room and is reaching tenderly for his hand. He snatches his hand away from Derek’s space too quickly, ignoring the alarmed look on his face. “I don’t need you taking care of me like I’m some child.”

Neither of them says anything for a while, and Stiles’ face flames. Derek’s just looking at him, not even with the usual bitter glare or fond smile, but with some sort of bewildered expression that makes Stiles feel as though he’s not just kicked a puppy, he’s bashed it. The silence stretches thin as Derek abruptly steps back, turning his head away.

Stiles notices that his eyelashes are incredibly long, and wonders what they would feel like brushing against his cheekbones.

_Not the time, Stilinksi._

“I—I’m sorry.” Derek says at last, looking lost as his eyes skirt the room, looking anywhere but at Stiles.

Stiles chokes hearing that unexpected combination of words out of Derek’s mouth.

“What—?” Stiles gapes, “What are you apologizing for?”

He’s half turned on and half horrified, feeling his stomach twist at the fact that he somehow made Derek Hale _apologize for something_.

Derek is still not looking at him, as though he finds this whole situation extremely painful. He’s gone from one hundred to zero ‘real quick, and Stiles feel horrible. “I obviously did something to hurt or offend you.” His voice sounds far away, mechanic, even though he is so close. If Stiles were to reach his hand out, his fingers could just brush against the smooth skin of Derek’s bare chest. And then:

“I thought you—.” Silence. Derek flushes. “Why are you here, Stiles?

And Stiles really can’t will himself to answer.

_I wanted to see your smile, just once._

_I am so, so lonely._

_Scott is spending all of his time with Isaac and I wanted a friend._

_I am a little bit in love with you._

None of Stiles’ answers come close to being even remotely acceptable to say aloud and he’s not sure what to do now. He’s wearing his discomfort on his face and Derek must know. _He has to know_. But Derek is just staring, waiting for him to say something, anything.

Stiles flounders and the words don’t ever come.

“I’m not going to be at pack meetings for a while,” Stiles says at last, gripping his wrist tightly and turning on his heel. The injured look on Derek’s face stays in his mind the entire ride home.

* * *

 

“You should really lock your windows this late at night.”

Stile’s shriek definitely does not mimic that of a seven year old girl as he shoves his hand underneath the blankets on his bed. He’s lying down, sprawled on his back with his laptop perched on his chest, as an unimpressed Cora Hale looks on.

“Are you masturbating to the thought of my brother shirtless again?” And Stiles wants to die, “Because Isaac and I were gonna sneak in to visit last month but you were a bit, er, preoccupied. I think you scarred poor Isaac for life with the sounds you were making.” 

“What?!”

Cora ignores Stiles’ flailing figure as he attempts to right himself. “If you’re going to get all hot and bothered over Derek, can you at least leave a warning for us?”

Stiles whimpers, but Cora just rolls her eyes. “Like a sock on your window sill? Or maybe a sign that says, _‘Stiles’ Sexy Times in Progress.’_ I’ve always liked alliteration and you’re a creative guy _.”_

“Jesus. I’m not—I’m not _masturbating_.” Stiles hopes that wherever his dad is in the house, he doesn’t hear him.

Cora narrows her eyes suspiciously, her gaze tracing Stiles’ outline under the blankets. He is suddenly struck by how similar the Hale siblings really are. “Then what are you hiding?”

Stiles says, “Nothing” but knows that it’s a mistake. Cora has already launched herself at Stiles’ limp body, prepared to rip the blankets away.

“Cora, _stop_ —” Stiles wrestles in an attempt to wrench her body away from his. Werewolf or not, Cora is still a million times stronger and more badass than Stiles will ever be, and before he knows it, the blanket is on the floor, along with his laptop and his pride. The word _DEREK_ taunts them from its place on his forearm.

“What is that.” Cora looks on, horrified.

“Cora—”

“That’s definitely not temporary.”

“Cora, I can explain—”

“Oh my god.”

“Cora, you better not tell a soul—”

“You guys are such _idiots_!”

“…what.”

“Derek has been a big, brooding baby because you’ve been avoiding him. He thought that you finally got sick of his macho I-can’t-like-Stiles-because-I’m-the-wounded-dark-alpha-and-he-deserves-better bullshit, so he’s been soaking the rest of us in his mopey man-pain for, _like_ , two weeks now.”

Stiles mind blanks. Derek likes him? And shuts him out because he likes him? That’s such a Derek thing to do. Stiles wants to laugh.

But Derek is so out of Stiles’ league that he can’t quite acquiesce and treat Cora’s words like a reality.

“And here you are,” Cora continues, waving her arms at Stiles’ tattoo like a sarcastic, bitchy version of Vanna White. “Avoiding him because you got a stupid tattoo of his name.”

Stiles isn’t sure what to say to that.

“Stiles,” Cora stares at him, contemplating, “why exactly did you get a stupid tattoo of his name?”

Stiles sighs.

* * *

 

Stiles knows that he is drunk. Well past drunk really, more like truly hammered. He’s cognizant enough to recognize that he knows the horny parasite of a man dragging him into a seedy tattoo shop, and that this guy isn’t a total stranger. The guy has dark hair and thick eyebrows, and he’s been drunkenly making passes at Stiles all night. Somehow, Stiles is okay with that.

There’s something about being eighteen and reckless, with his first fake ID and the chant of _wrong_ _wrong wrong_ in his head mingling with the bass vibrating deep in his bones that makes Stiles feel alive. Or it could be the excess vodka he just consumed. Actually, it’s probably the vodka. Hm.

The guy has a weird glint in his eye, and it’s sort of dangerous. Stiles can tell that he’s the kind of wild, uncontrollable guy who makes rash decisions. So when he says, “Oi, let’s get matching tattoos, yeah?” Stiles really isn’t surprised.

Stiles wanders over to a book of tattoo ideas.

“What should we get?” Stiles eyes the page of dolphin tattoo designs dubiously.

“How about our names? You get mine, I’ll get yours.” The guy laughs, and Stiles thinks that he’s not as attractive in the bright lights of a tattoo shop as in the dark of a club, when Stiles had his eyes closed. This could be a problem. Stiles vehemently agrees though, because _why the hell not?_

He’s sitting in a tattoo chair, getting prepped by an artist when he realizes that his date for the night looks like a less attractive Derek. Huh. His hair is the same color but curlier, he’s lankier and less Adonis-like, and his eyebrows are impressive, though significantly less broody…

“Uh, hey?” The guy, a true Not-Derek, calls too loudly, listening to the buzz of the needle as it pierces Stiles’ skin. Not-Derek looks shy for a moment. “Sorry, uh, what’d you say your name was again?”

“Stiles.” Stiles admits, receiving a thumbs up from Not-Derek.

Stiles is blissed out, accepting the numb, repetitive pain of the needle against his skin, before he realizes that he doesn’t actually know Not-Derek’s name. He can’t remember what he told his artist to write on his skin, only remembers agreeing and smiling and saying, _yeah bro, that looks great_. He feels like he’s going to regret this later, but the gentle thrum of his pulse and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest tell him that he doesn’t actually care.

After it’s over, Stiles can’t stop laughing. He stares at the forearm of Not-Derek—Stiles realizes the next day that his name is Matt—and giggles at what he finds there. Not-Derek is proudly wearing the word _STYLES_ for the world to see.

( _Why would he pick Comic Sans? That’s honestly the worst font, really_.)

Stiles is too drunk and too busy giggling at the absurdity of the situation to realize that he is the only one amused. He almost stops when he sees Not-Derek’s somber expression.

“Does this mean I’m not getting laid?” Not-Derek says, reaching forward and shaking Stiles’ arm.  

Stiles giggles. “What do you mean? I’m definitely up for some fun tonight.”

“Then who the fuck is _Derek_?”

* * *

 

Stiles lets himself into Derek’s loft as usual, but doesn’t spy him anywhere in the open space. Figuring he must be upstairs lurking on the balcony and being creepy—as usual—Stiles walks further into the room. He trails his fingers across the back of the lone sofa, fingers snagging on Derek’s leather jacket tossed haphazardly against the arm. Stiles has been careful, has bandaged his tattoo in preparation of this visit, but still, he can’t resist the urge to wear the jacket just the same.

What could go wrong? Best case scenario: he gets to wear Derek’s jacket. Worst case scenario: Derek gets angry and pushes him against a wall.

It’s a win-win situation.

Derek descends from the heavens of his loft five minutes later to find Stiles curled in his leather jacket, fiddling with his laptop on the couch. He raises a single Tall, Dark, and Broody eyebrow in silent question. Stiles accepts the challenge and quirks a Skinny, Light and Way Less Broody eyebrow in return, as though to say _, what’re you gonna do about it?_

Derek’s eyes darken, and he gives Stiles a once-over, gaze languidly sliding over his body. Stiles shivers. “You’re wearing my jacket,” Derek grunts at last, voice slightly deeper than Stiles remembers.

“I thought we already established this with the little eyebrow game we had going on there.”

Derek smirks. “Are you going to run away from me this time, or are we going to talk?”

“No running, I promise.” Stiles smiles, and gestures towards the laptop. “I was thinking we could watch some movies and pretend like you haven’t been rotting away in this jail cell you call a home this whole time? All you have to do is provide the snacks.”

Derek wanders over to Stiles’ side, leans over his shoulder and peers at Stiles’ computer screen. His breath ghosts along the nape of Stiles’ neck and Stiles stills, holding his breath.

“ _Mexican Werewolf in Texas_ ,” Derek reads, amused and oblivious to Stiles’ reaction beneath him. “Why does that sound awful?”

“You mean why does that sound _amazing_?” Stiles pumps his fist in the air, loud and proud. “You’re deflecting and you know it. What snacks do you have?”

Derek looks dejected. “All I have is bread and butter.” Stiles makes an alarmed squawk and Derek shoots him a look. “You know Jackson always brings the snacks for pack meetings. He’s very fussy about his gluten intake.”

“How could I forget?” Stiles mumbles, distracted as Derek rounds the couch, crossing the room to investigate the contents of his pathetic and dusty kitchen. Stiles’ gut twists as he imagines Derek alone on days when Cora’s not around.

Stiles looks around.  The condition of the loft hasn’t improved much since Derek took it over: it will always be dirty floorboards, dirty furniture and a dirty past. A couch, a bed, a desk. This is all that Derek has to make himself feel comfortable and it makes Stiles incredibly sad.

Stiles knows that despite the pack meetings and initiated bonding time, Derek rarely makes contact with others for non-pack related business. He wonders if Derek is lonely, or if he’s content in his solitude. He wonders if Derek knows that his pack is his family.

“Hey, Derek?” Stiles calls, and Derek emerges from a cabinet, holding a loaf of bread in his hands, victorious. “Cut the crusts off my bread too, yeah?”

Something changes in Derek’s expression as he looks at Stiles. There is a warm fondness in his gaze that makes Stiles' toes curl. Stiles watches, transfixed, as Derek’s lips quirk upwards and he smiles, eye crinkles and all.

* * *

 

Derek falls asleep halfway into _An American Werewolf in London._ Stiles isn’t sure why he thought that a movie marathon involving the worst werewolf films he could find would be a good idea, but he’s glad he followed through with it. He’s still wearing Derek’s jacket, and the scent of soap and pine overwhelms his senses in the best possible way. He feels incredibly warm, probably because Derek has slumped over in his sleep and is pressed against his side, and he thinks that he hasn’t been this happy in months. His fingers itch to brush against Derek’s cheeks, to see if they feel as sharp as they look.

Stiles abruptly remembers Cora arguing with him a few days prior, screaming, “ _Just tell him it’s a stupid tattoo! I can’t take the man-pain!”_ as she gripped his hand with too much force. Stiles forces his hands to still in his lap. He peels away Derek’s jacket from his arm and glares at his tattoo with a vehemence reserved only for his mortal enemies.

He looks back at Derek. Derek, with his beautiful lips slightly parted in the peacefulness of sleep. Derek, who hasn’t been happy in so long.

He thinks: _You are inadequate, Stiles. Derek Hale is out of your league._

And then he promptly falls asleep.

* * *

 

Stiles always imagines his first kiss with Derek as something magical. He envisions a kiss underneath fireworks on the fourth of July, a kiss in the rain, a kiss while he’s completely lost in the throes of their passion and intoxicated by the proximity of Derek’s bare, heaving chest…

Okay. Maybe not that last one.

So when they’re sitting on Stiles’ bed, watching _An American Werewolf in Paris_ on a late summer afternoon _,_ kissing Derek is not a strong contender on the list of things that are likely to happen next.

Stiles hasn’t been paying attention for most of the movie, and begins to wonder why they even have the computer on.

Because Derek “I-want-to-have-your-mega-hot-wolfy-babies" Hale is sitting with his legs pressed against Stiles’ on the bed, _in his bedroom_ , barefoot, looking—

Looking at Stiles like—

“I have a tattoo of your name on my body.”

Derek chokes.

“Um,” Stiles’ recovery is as eloquent as he could have hoped for. He looks at the ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles above them, but doesn’t find a solution to his problem there. “Can we pretend the last minute or so didn’t just happen?”

“Not a chance.”

Stiles is an idiot, but he's always known this.

Stiles sighs, but reluctantly pulls up the sleeves of his hoodie to reveal the offensive tattoo in question. A myriad of expressions flash on Derek’s face at once: amazement, confusion, amusement, lust, horror. It makes Stiles dizzy just watching him. He’s expecting it to be awkward, and he opens his mouth to apologize for…something…he’s not really sure.

“When did you get this?” Derek reaches out and tentatively places a single finger on the “D” in _DEREK_. He traces the smooth curve of the single letter against Stiles’ skin, before his hand glides over to the “e”. He’s looking at Stiles as he does so, but Stiles can’t bring himself to meet his eyes.

Fuck, his heart is racing.

“A month and a half? I was drunk.” Stiles mumbles, watching as Derek traces the “r”.

“A month and a half.” Derek repeats in awe, his voice husky in the silence. “You managed to keep this a secret for that long?” His fingers find the "e" and stop short of the "k".

“I guess.”

Stiles finally meets Derek’s eyes. The room is still. Derek is looking at Stiles as though he wants to eat him. Strangely, Stiles would be okay with that. “That’s…interesting.”

And Stiles’ brain barely has time to register that “interesting” is Derek-speak for “ _really fucking hot_ ” before Derek’s lips are covering his own and Stiles’ brain stops working.

Because this isn’t a fourth of July kiss, or a kiss in the rain, or a steamy romance-novel affair. This is Derek brushing his lips over Stiles’, once, twice, nipping his lower lip and grumbling deep in his chest, so low that Stiles can feel the vibrations. This is Stiles’ laptop falling to the ground as Derek pushes him on his back, running his hand through Stiles’ short hair, grunting. This is arms tangling with arms and legs tangling with legs, and bare toes brushing against each other. This is Stiles, flushed and happy and in love with Derek Hale, kissing back.

“If I knew you were this into tattoos,” Stiles grins, as he pulls back and clutches Derek’s shoulders. “I would have shown you a month ago.”

Derek wipes the smirk off of Stiles’ face with a kiss. Stiles can’t complain.

* * *

 

“Hey, Stiles—OH MY GOD.”

Stiles hears Cora’s voice fill the room just as Derek licks a stripe across the skin of his wrist, placing a brief kiss on his tattoo. Derek’s doing something obscene with his hips, and Stiles can’t bring himself to care about the sudden noise, instead letting out a low whine and groaning something along the lines of “ _come on Derek, harder_ ”.

But Derek is now frozen above him, clutching the sheet blankets to hide both of their very naked bodies. Stiles realizes too late what exactly has happened, but that doesn't stop his whole body from flushing as he hears Cora scream and practically throw herself back out the window.

“A sign, Stiles!” She screams from the ground below, her voice suggesting she’s just as mortified as he is. “ _We talked about a sign!_ ”  

Stiles can’t bring himself to look at Derek. Instead, he stuffs his head straight into his pillow in a sad attempt to suffocate himself before mumbling, “Did your sister just catch us having sex?”

“Yup.” Stiles doesn’t need to see Derek’s face to know that he’s trying (and failing) to contain his laughter.

“That’s embarrassing. No, that’s completely humiliating! I’m never going to live this down. My tombstone is going to read: Here lies Stiles Stilinksi, death by utter mortification.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” Derek murmurs into the crook of Stiles’ neck, and yeah okay, Stiles swoons just a bit. Nobody has to know about that.

And when Derek visits him the next day, with the word _STILES_ tattooed—and spelled correctly thank goodness—on his wrist in a gross Helvetica, Stiles decides that maybe tattoos aren’t so bad after all.


End file.
